Of Art Students and Coffee Addicts
by DesiGirl.AmericanWorld
Summary: A world in which Kuchiki Rukia, younger sister of business tycoon Kuchiki Byakuya wants nothing more than a good cup of coffee and all A's in her classes, and Kurosaki Ichigo is an art student who dropped pre-med a month before his graduation. Rated T for language and minor sexual themes. AU, IchigoxRukia (Ichiruki)
1. Prologue

**This is my first fanfic on this account, so if you call it hell, I'll agree with you. Just getting used to the way things work.**

Prologue

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Kuchiki Rukia was many things, but patient was not one of them. She was late for class, her coffee machine was broken, and her only caffeine was coming from an extra large no-cream no-sugar made by high school drop outs and art students. A coffee that, by the way, she had been waiting for for seven minutes. She considered yelling at the cashier. The only thing that didn't come to mind was skipping the coffee. Now, Rukia could manage her time. But even she couldn't go a day without coffee without collapsing.

She noticed the barista change shifts, the auburn haired girl replaced by a boy with orange hair and a deep scowl. Rukia wanted to scream, as now her drink would take even more time. She wondered for a second if her eyes were bloodshot, and if that was making her angry. They probably were. She was a business student, damnit! A business student who liked to be early to class. She muttered a few choice words under her breath.

"I have a black for a Rukia?"

Her head shot up. _Finally._ She stole the coffee out of the hands of Mr. Scowl, paid a fair tip for being quicker than the girl before him, and ran out, taking a sip of the -admittedly good- coffee.

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 **Whelp. Here's to trying new things.**


	2. The First Move

**Sorry, I haven't updated in ages! I haven't had time to breath since the year started. I'll try to update at least twice a month from here on out.**

 **Enjoy!**

The First Move

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It was another month before Rukia had the misfortune of gracing the coffee shop. By then, winter vacation had begun, and everyone with a home close enough to visit was going home. Rukia reveled in it, because it meant the campus belonged mostly to her, with the exception of a few stragglers, who were typically too downcast about missing family holidays to bother her.

Unfortunately, her roommate had taken her coffee machine home, and Rukia's was still broken. So for the past hour and a half, she had spent her idle time at a back table in a college cafe, downing cup after cup of whatever could be made the quickest. Running on little to no sleep thanks to her dear old friend insomnia, Rukia made quick work of the caffeine, channeling it towards finishing as many books as she possibly could about the history of international trade in Japan, including its influence on modern Japanese trade. Her plan was to write a paper on the possibilities of eradicating the negative influence of the past, as well as providing a small execution example, using her connections in her brother's company.

Kuchiki Rukia detested idle time. However, after three hours of reading the same content in different words, over and over and over, even she was craving something more exciting. After rummaging through her book bag for a minute, she found a copy of Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck, which she had unfortunately read too many times to count, and yet still found very little appeal. Boredom, however, is a fine motivator, and half an hour later, she was engrossed enough in the familiar words to ignore the blatant ableism and lack of captivating dialogue. Her hands idly twirled the pen, occasionally blotting ink on her notebook.

Perhaps she knew what she was doing, perhaps she didn't, but when she came across her favorite quote from the book, a not-so-memorable rambling that had stuck with her from the first time she had read the book, the pen in her hand moved off of her notebook and onto the table. In bold, black ink, on a table that she knew from the past two days no one ever sat at, she quoted the not-so-famous words of a very famous author. "As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment." If she did in fact know that she had done it, she may have felt slightly guilty for whomever would have to remove the ink. However, she had ordered so much coffee, the actual profit itself could probably pay for the whole table.

With her mind on that train of thought, Rukia realized her mug had been emptied. As she raised her head, trying to catch the attention of one of the afternoon waiters, one of the baristas-a tall, fair haired man-placed a plate down beside her.

"On the house."

That was all he muttered before he turned tail, without even giving Rukia a chance to say 'Thank You.' Which, quite frankly, ticked her off a bit.

She did, however, appreciate the coffee cupcake and hot chocolate she had been offered. She wrapped up soon after, forgetting entirely about the English markings she had left on the table.

When the table was cleaned, however, her writing was merely replaced with new words. "And sound and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment." It read. Then, 'Impressive English penmanship, by the way. Shame it's wasted on such an insult to classic literature.' Each letter was written in quick, effortless, perfect English.

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 **For any of you guys who missed this story, you are free to hate me as much as you wish, because my only excuse is a pile of bullshit, and that is the fact that I had forgotten completely about this story, and that I was writing it. Won't happen again, or I'll hand you a pen and you can poke me whenever I fall asleep writing pointless skits and other crap out of boredom.**

 **Also, future chapters will be longer, I just wanted to tell anyone interested in the story that it will in fact be continuing.**


	3. The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock

**I think starting next time, I'll try to maintain a schedule of every 2nd and 4th weekend of the month. Hopefully any deviations will be to write more, rather than less. Anyway, enjoy!**

The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock

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The next day when Rukia stumbled in through the doors of the cafe at an unnamed, ungodly hour, she was almost ready to kill a man, a fact not aided by the kind, but hyperactive red haired girl working the morning shift. She ordered a black, remembering from her first visit exactly how slow the cheery girl could be. On her way to the unused back table that she had decided was now her spot, she took a sip, and winced. 90% of the time, the coffee was terrible. The only employee who could make good coffee (in Rukia's not-incredibly-generous opinion) took an evening shift, though he did seem to pop in at random times during the day to help out. Which Rukia was intensely grateful for, because while she still held her steadfast belief that coffee shops of this kind were dreadful, the past couple of days had her discovering that the location of this particular shop was great, and the table she had picked out was never used by anyone else, and very secluded. It was, in a word, perfect. A fact admitted very grudgingly.

Rukia plopped down unceremoniously in her seat, neatly stacking the books and papers in front of her, before sliding them over to the side to clear space. Upon doing so, her future took on a new path. Which is an oddly poetic way of saying she noticed the reply to her previous message. She paused for a second, her hands still laying on her books, taking a moment to confirm what she was seeing.'"And sound and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment." Impressive English penmanship, by the way. Shame it's wasted on such an insult to classic literature.' She blinked for a couple seconds, and a smile nearly ghosted her lips. (Though her Kuchiki pride would not permit that, of course.) She cleaned off the marker with some hand sanitizer and a tissue, and ignored it for the rest of the day, sipping coffee after horrible coffee, taking notes for her personal project, and reading another English classic. A bit before she left, tall scowly carrot man took up his shift and offered her a muffin on the house. She finished it faster than an average human eats an average muffin, and, a little more intentionally this time, left a message on the table.

'What do you have against A Tale of Two Cities? The fact that it's horrible isn't enough.'

Of course, the next morning there was a reply, and so it begun again.

'What more does one need?'

'Nothing, of course, I only wanted your answer.'

'Inquisitive. I should have guessed from the violet eyes.'

'They're real. Also, how do purple eyes correlate to inquisitiveness? You are an incredibly mysterious person.'

'On the same note, how does my choice in words make me a mysterious man? You're the one with the raven's hair.'

'What is this, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock?'

'Did you just compare me to a mysterious lady who likes scarves?'

'No I was saying the way you describe me reminded me of Prufrock.'

'So poetry reminds the princess of a bald man who dies alone with nothing more exciting to worry about than his pant legs?'

'What, is J. Alfred Prufrock also an insult to classic literature?'

'Excuse you, T.S. Elliot is the best.'

Their conversation never failed to amuse Rukia, though she proudly managed to retain her mask of the emotionless Kuchiki. Within the week, it had become a much enjoyed habit.

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 **I missed my prior deadline by a few days, but I mean it, now. Every 2nd and 4th week of a month, at the very least.**


	4. TEMP AUTHORS NOTE

**So... it's been like 6 months. I can explain. Kind of. So, in the past 6 months I have changed my major, moved out of my old apartment, dealt with a lot of citizenship issues, and moved again to my current flat, because (yey) my girlfriend and I decided to move in together. So, like. Somewhere along the way, I forgot this fic existed. Sorry. Anywho, I'll get a new chapter up by the next weekend, I think!**


End file.
